Don't Want To Miss You Tonight
by SongbirdNoodles
Summary: Two nights before the convention 2006, Josh leaves a heartfelt message on Donna's answering machine. Much ensues. Sort of AU, in a heyitcouldhavehappened sort of way.
1. Didn't Hear A Tone, Are You Hello?

**Don't Want To Miss You Tonight**

_And all I can taste is this moment_

_and all I can breathe s your life_

_'cause sooner or later it's over_

_I just don't want to miss you tonight_

-Iris (from the Goo Goo Dolls)

**Part One**

**Didn't Hear A Tone, Are You- Hello?**

_Didn't hear a tone, are you, hello_

_I never hear a tone, I guess you know_

_I can't remember what I called to say_

_I thought you might be home on Saturday_

_I really can't believe it's been a year_

_It took a little time without you here_

_I'm guessing you survived alone somehow_

_It's good that I can joke about it now_

-People Change (Rockapella)

Donna Moss hurried up the stairs into her DC apartment, feeling the palpable air of, well, neglect, as she reached the top landing and her front door. She hadn't been home in what, six weeks, had learned to think of the predictably color schemes of Holiday Inn bathrooms as comforting and home. But two days to the Convention, there was really no need to stay in a hotel in DC. Not to mention she was in dire need of new clothes and a quiet night with the once-familiar hum of the old radiator pipes, after all that had happened in the past two days. As she bent over her bag to dig for her house keys, who were demonstrating how they felt about being neglected for weeks by hiding in the farthermost corner of the tote, she could hear the phone ringing inside, and, as she dug around between tissues, notebooks, chewing gum, the battered paperback copy of _Tuesdays With Morrie_ she'd been trying to read for weeks and other assorted belongings, the tone of her answering machine going off. By the time she'd procured the keys and unlocked the door, whoever had called seemed mid-message. She pushed the old door open, and stepped inside her apartment. Her fingers had already reached out to find the light switch, when she heard his voice echoing from the machine and froze.

He didn't have much of a reason to do what he was doing other than instinct and a diffuse, strange longing, but six months into a national campaign and almost as many without a good night's sleep, Josh Lyman's defenses against things like instinct were running low. He'd come to DC for a few days, but had spent as much time as possible in the hotel with the Congressman, more time than he strictly need to, because his apartment was strange and too quiet and not home anymore- really, it had never been. Home had been the White House, and times when he wasn't there were vacations, or like being grounded, it depended. He'd called CJ and Toby, had wanted to see them, but then something came up, of course, and that left him sitting alone in his apartment, the feeling that he should have been there, with them, doing whatever it was they were doing, heightened by the silence and emptiness around him. He'd reached for the phone without meaning to, was halfway through dialing when he asked himself what he was doing, and when he realized he had no idea, he finished dialing anyway.

A simple, rhythmic beeping, once, twice, three times, and his heart pounded as he tried to figure out whether he wanted her to pick up or not. Five, six beeps, and then- "Hi, you've reached Donna Moss, I'm not home all that often these days, but call me on my cell, the number's 1225-48484720. Thanks for calling, bye." Her voice, crackling and tinny and achingly familiar, as friendly as ever, but somehow more mature, not as girlish, and so far away.

_Beep_. He froze, then his mouth started working, his mind catching up with the words he was saying only later, too late, maybe.

"Hey, it's me. Josh. Is this really still your number- I'm surprised you haven't sublet your apartment to some rabid grad students- or maybe you have? Hey if you're listening to this and you're not Donna- ignore whatever I'm about to say and vote for Santos in November, okay? Thanks. Anyway, Donna, I guess- I thought you might be at home, 'cause I am, so... but I guess you're not. You know what- forget that I called, I can't even remember what I called to say, I just... never mind. So, convention on Saturday, huh? Showdown. I gotta say I apologize in advance for the massive disappointment you're in for. I'm already sort of hoping you never get this message, so I can say- your guy still doesn't deserve to win, and he _won't_, and you _know_ that, don't you- after Thursday, after you saw Matt Santos and the man he is, you know your Bingo VP's got no chance, right? But you know what? You do. I don't... I'm really proud of you, in a weird way, I just wish you weren't working for such a total piece of crap... Hey, can I ask you something? You don't really believe he's good, do you? You worked for the best president this country's had in ages for eight years, you don't really believe Bingo Bob is a worthy successor, do you? Whatever. Point is, I thought you did very well. Willie not so much, but you've... you've really made me proud. In a way. God, I hope a rock falls on this machine and you never hear any of this. But for what it's worth- if you hear this tonight- which I don't hope- call me, maybe. We can have a two-sided conversation. Or maybe this message has convinced you more than ever that I'm a egomaniac, twisted jackass who deserved to be left without so much as…never mind. That's Toby's line, and I wouldn't be giving it to you, except… what was up with that, anyway? Can I ask you something? If I had listened to you the first time, if I had said, 'Sit down Donna, have some coffee, with an inch of milk and two-and-a-half packages of Splenda and tell me what the problem is', could I have convinced you to stay? If I'd punched Billy Bailey in the face- would that have been enough for you? 'Cause I think you know I would have, except it probably wouldn't have been right anyway. Okay you know what? I'm gonna go now. This is ridiculous. I just wanted to say- you know what? I honestly have no idea what I wanted to say. Sorry you had to listen to all this. See you Saturday, right?" Josh hung up the phone, stared at it for a second and dropped backwards onto his bed, closing his eyes. What had he done?

"See you Saturday, right?" Click. Donna, still standing the darkness of her doorway, clutching her bag like a drowning person, completely frozen, hypnotized by the sound of his voice. His question still hung in the air, and suddenly, she noticed the other pieces of Josh that still hung in this room- the Schoolhouse Rock CD on the kitchen counter, a Christmas present from seven years ago, the old sweatshirt he'd lent her after an unfortunate affair with the printer had wrecked her blouse sometime during the second campaign, and she'd never given it back. Even the silence that filled the room, broken only by the hum of the radiators, which didn't sound comforting at all, but loud and bothersome, seemed to echo his question, seemed to be inhabited by, well, him. Her apartment seemed too dingy, too desolate, and she felt lanky, spoilt, and so tired. She had longed to come home to something comforting, and now all that she had found was the never-ending whirlwind of confused emotions that was Joshua Lyman. She rested her head against the frame of her door, taking in the dusty smell of chipped paint and waited for her brain to quiet itself. It didn't. All she could hear was his voice, and her heart, beating loudly and irregularly. A car backfired outside, and she lifted her head.

He hears the doorbell go off and opens his eyes in surprise. He can't remember whether he's ordered food or not, but he doesn't think he has, so this must be… he has no idea. Maybe it's CJ, with a bottle of Chardonnay and an armful of sage advice and her quirky jokes, yes, that would be nice. Or Toby, although they'd probably get into another fight, and even that sounds strangely appealing. He hoists himself up and walks towards the door, pulling it open. He gasps. It's not at all CJ, and not at all Toby, no… it's _her_. With that stylish new haircut that makes her look so much less like someone who's run away from their asshole boyfriend to get a no-name New Hampshire Governor elected, and so much more like a serious political mind working for the most well-endowed campaign in the history of Democratic politics. But she's wearing that achingly-familiar pink cardigan, relic from a time when he knew the three pieces of formal office wear his brand new assistant owned, and could still carelessly tease her about it. Christ, it's been a long time. They've traveled quite a road, and not of all of it together. But she's here now, carrying a bag of Chinese takeout and looking at him with a look in her eyes he's never seen there before, so powerful, but so vulnerable, too. They stare at each other, looking each other up and down, until the only place left to look is the other's eyes.

It had taken her two minutes, staring into the blurred darkness of her apartment, to make a decision. Two more to heave her suitcase into the doorway and pull the door shut, hurry down the stairs and catch a cab. Ten minutes to drive to CJ's favorite takeout place that makes the best General Tsao's in the country, and the crispiest fried shrimps she's ever eaten. Five minutes of standing around, getting food, catching another cab. Another eight to drive here. One minute to slowly but surely walk up the stairs, her heart beat fast and irregular, trying and failing to make up her mind if she wants him to be home or not, if she wants to punch him in the face or crawl into his arms, breathe in his rainwater-smell, and never think again. A trembling finger, ringing the doorbell, baited breath as she hears his footsteps on the other side, and then the door opens, and he's staring at her, and she's staring at him, and questions explode in her head. He looks older, so much more serious, has he lost his dimples? Shadows under his eyes, even his hair looks tired, even his shoulders, those strong and powerful shoulders holding up he weight of the world and all his angsty troubles, are sagging, spent. Their eyes meet, and his eyes, at least, are still the same, the same brown, the trees by Lake Mendota in Madison on a rainy day, but with flecks of a summer sun in them. They look at each other and, in the summer-day-specks of light in Josh's eyes, she finally finds what she's been looking for in her radiator's hum: home.


	2. Completly Incomplete

**Part Two- Completely Incomplete**

Forgetting all I'm lacking

Completely incomplete

I'll take your invitation

You take all of me now...

I'm falling even more in love with you

Letting go of all I've held onto

I'm standing here until you make me move

I'm hanging by a moment here with you

- Hanging by a Moment (Lifehouse)

"Hey." It's more of a croak, sounds a little like he's forgotten how to talk. And he probably has, in a way- their special mode of communication, light, light banter with a hint of depth, a million possibilities hovering on the edges of each word, he hasn't been practicing it, he can't have, without her. She hopes.

"Hi." _Her_ voice seems perfectly natural to him, the teasing tone, the elongated syllables. "What, are you surprised to see me? After charming me over here?" Or maybe she's just turned into a good actress –politics will do that to you- because it seems a little off-pitch, a little too light, breathy. Well it would, she must be feeling as out of practice as he is. He hopes.

"A little, yeah," he's getting better, the familiar rhythm is coming back to him, "I didn't even realize you were still in town."

She ignores this, pushes past him, walks through the strikingly familiar apartment, heading for the kitchen. She breathes in, but the rooms smell as much of dust and neglect as her own, and not like Josh's apartment. Granted, the one smell she recalls most is the one of antiseptic, from the days after Roselyn, but there's more to it- a concoction of Chinese food, furniture polish and freshly dry-cleaned shirts that made up the place. He's following her, obviously quite as amazed at her nonchalant air as she is, but instinct is telling her the longer they can uphold an image of normality, the longer they can play-act this is nothing more than two former colleagues having dinner, the better. She reaches for two plates –how is it, that she still remembers the cabinet?- starts ladling out takeout. He's leaning against the kitchen doorframe, a smile playing around his lips, never taking his eyes off her and looking wistful. And pretty darn handsome.

"What?" She asks, smiling at him as she licks grease off her fingers and starts distributing tiny eggrolls.

"It's good to see you," he shrugs, looking sheepish, the resemblance with a little boy with scrawny knees more striking then usual. "You look good," he adds, his voice quavering a tiny bit, so tiny she's not even sure it's really there.

She feels herself beam, the slight flush on her cheeks. "Thanks."

"You want a beer?" He joins her in the kitchen, opens the fridge, and suddenly, the domesticity of it all, the food, the beer, the kitchen, the comfortable silence is more than she can handle. Tack a few crayon pictures to the fridge, put some plastic appliances on the counter and a stroller in the hallway, and it'd be- _what, Donna? Perfection? All you ever wanted? _Once upon a time, the answer would have been a never-admissible yes, but she's not so sure anymore. Six months into national campaigning, never answering someone else's calls, she's turning into someone she never thought she could be. She pushes the thought away, out of her mind, for now. Turns to look at Josh, who seems as lost in thought as she is.

He walks towards the fridge, marveling at the change that's come over her. She seems so grown up, but it's not that that's surprising- he's known all along (or ever since CJ pointed it out to him) that, once he let her go, "off her leash" as CJ put it, she'd come back a different woman, _except_, he has thought with much resentment for the past six months, hiding behind potted plants in hotel lobbies, skulking in corner tables of dingy hotel bars, _she hasn't come back_- what he's wondering at is something else. It's the new grace, the quiet self-assurance she's carrying herself with, which has replaced so much of the awkward, angular, stork-like elegance he has known so well. But he can't help but notice how she's trying to recreate just that. How with every word, every gesture, she's falling back into familiar patterns. His smile broadens at the way she's diving up fried shrimp, sneaking a bite into her mouth every now and then. As he hands her a beer, the absurdity of the situation occurs to him- it's almost as if they're Josh-and-Donna again, or _more_ than ever before. He quickly pushes that dangerous thought away, into the depth of his mind, and focus on something else. Anything else. Her. "What are you doing here?"

Her shrug comes forced, too late, and she seems to wince at the question. "Seeing how you're doing, I guess."

"You didn't seem to care for the past six months," and his voice is suddenly sharp, wounded.

She sighs, there goes her plan for normality. Out of the window, with the image of a tiny, curly blonde head demanding a bedtime story. "It's not that I didn't care," she says defensively. "I just didn't think my interest was appreciated… or _needed_," she adds coolly. "You seem to have figured a way to tie your ties without me."

"You walked out on me!" He snaps, and the sharpness of his voice grows more prominent with every word. She feels slashed. "You _left_ me and I… you didn't even give me the chance to change your mind! You could have done the exact same things you're doing now for a candidate that's actually worth more than the sum of his donations from corporate America!"

"Oh for the love God, Josh!" She's yelling, but she doesn't care. "Do you honestly think you would have let me do anything more than answer your phones and order your food? If I'd stayed, I'd be stuck as the extension as your fingers to type and dial for you-"

"Yeah, maybe! And can you blame me?!" He roars, rage and anger and pain distorting his voice. "Seeing as the ONE TIME I let you out into the world you were blown out of the sky and came back to me with a pulmonary embolism?!"

Silence fills the room. This is the second time tonight he's said more, much more than he wanted to, and ruined it all, with stupid words. He can't bring himself to look her in the eye. He focuses on the refrigerator door, which reflects her slender figure, her mass of blonde hair, the way her skirt curves a tiny bit at the cup of her but, the spot at the left sleeve, by the elbow, where the old cardigan is nearly completely worn through, the stray strands of hair on her neck which he knows to be as stubborn as they are soft. He feels blood rushing to his face, and when he can finally bring himself to look at her, she's staring at him. Her eyes are softer now, all that new found grace has fallen off like a discarded coat and what's left is _his_ Donna, with the screwed up like-your-hamster-just-died expression on her face, the watery blue eyes filled to the brim with an unexplained gentleness. She shakes her head, in a gesture of total understanding.

"Josh," It's only a whisper, and he knows where he's heard it before. In a military hospital in Germany, in the middle of the night. And before that, on a sunny May morning in a room at George Washington hospital.

She can't quite believe this. Can't believe the way her heart is falling apart and gluing itself together, several times, at the speed of sound. _You were blown out of the sky and came back to me with a pulmonary embolism. _The days after Gaza, the months of working together in total denial of everything that had happened, and then, it all went so fast. Bumping into Will at a coffee shop during lunch, and his job offer, totally out of the blue. Josh's completely assholic behavior that day. Her new life, unfolding before in all its' glory. And then, months of adrenaline-high 16 hour days actually _doing_ something, Josh coming back to her only in confused dreams and awkward moments in bars and elevators. They've both been carrying these shattered expectations, born in a military hospital in the middle of the night, with them for nearly a year. It had never occurred to her that he… she shakes her head, whispers his name. Her mind blanks for a spilt second, and when her thoughts return, there as orderly as the stacks of mail she used to leave on his desk. They need to talk about this.


	3. The Closest To Heaven That I'll Ever Be

**Part Three**

**The Closest To Heaven That I'll Ever Be**

And I'd give up forever to touch you

'cause I know that you feel me somehow

you're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be

-Iris (Goo-Goo Dolls)

They probably should talk about this. Should probably sit down with the Chinese food and talk about this like adults, about all the things they've never talked about. About how she wouldn't and he didn't stop for red lights and how, if they handled this right, maybe –and she's never allowed herself to think this before- maybe, maybe if they don't screw it up, they have the crayons, and the curly blonde heads at their fingertips. If they sit down and talk now, maybe they can find a way to work it out. But at this moment, she can't care about all that. She looks in his eyes, the way defiance and confusion, hurt and hope are mixed and reflected in them, and she can't think rationally. In fact, the only thing she can do is walk towards him, take his face into her hands. Marvel at the prickly stubble tickling her palms, the way his skin softens at the temples, the silkiness of his hair, barely touching her fingertips. His brow creases, and then they look at each other.

He is convinced the universe has stopped moving, and they are stuck somewhere out of the time-space continuum, in a place where all that counts is how close they're standing to each other. Her warm hands on his face. He reaches out, timidly but surely, and shyly tucks a strand of hair out of her face. Has she been this beautiful ever before? His hands are barely shaking as he pulls her close, feels the scratchy wool of this cardigan he's known for so long under his fingers , feels the warmth of her body in his hands.

His hands, warm and steady and irrevocable on her hips. Her body is swooning, and her mind is slowing down, coming to rest as she takes her hands off his face and slips them around his neck. Looks him in the eye in an almost playful way –_Maybe I will, and maybe I won't-_ buries her hands in his hair the way she's wanted to for seven years, a tiny smile playing on her face, and then he gets it- this is banter, too then. This is the moment they've both been waiting for, and they can wait a little longer. Her smile, small and delicious and knowing, and his gentle, broadening grin –he hasn't lost his dimples, they're right there, and they're all hers- and she looks him in the eye, and knows that the waiting –seven years, eight months, ten days and give or take ten hours' worth of waiting- is over. Over at last.

She kisses him, and it's nothing like she's expected to be, it's not like the end of a movie, a long and gentle kiss as the camera pans out and the credits start rolling, no. This is the beginning of a movie, the beginning of a whole new story, and even as she breathes in every last detail of him, as she feels them both melt a little around the lips, questions are exploding in her head about where this movie might be heading, once this moment, this glorious, mind-blowing moment is over. But it can't be over just yet, there's two much hunger in the way their lips are snatching at each other, they way her hands are suddenly plowing their way down his spine, the way he's holding her- this is the unleashed fury of two people who can't work it out properly, two people, who even as they're clinging on too each other, are furious with those hands, that mouth, those white-hot lips and the way they're almost bruising each other, furious even though it _feels so good…_

It feels so good, and yet they both know, that this is a moment of purely masochistic pleasure. That outside of the yellowish glow of his kitchen light, in the harsh DC day, this will be a tremendous mistake and will leave both of them only a bit more shattered. It feels so good, her hair, smelling irresistible of what he has always imagined wild flowers to smell like, right there, only an inch or so a way from his face. It feels so good, his hands, the slightly callused fingertips brushing intently over her spine, pushing up her old cardigan, her blouse, barely touching the skin underneath and she curves her spine towards him, their bodies interlocking like two brightly colored pieces of Lego. He pulls her against the fridge, or maybe she pushes him, it's getting harder to determine where she stops and he starts, and all thoughts of crayon artwork is forgotten as he fumbles with the button of her blouse, as her hands make their way up his T-shirt, and he tears off the cardigan and pulls off the blouse, she yanks the shirt over his head and as both pieces of clothing –grubby gray, threaded pink- hit the kitchen floor without a sound, entangling themselves around her feet, she suddenly breaks away, blinks away the rush of the past moments, the blind, wide-eyed rapids of grasping, snatching that has left her literally out of breath.

She's suddenly frozen, standing apart from him, staring as though she's never seen him before, and he feels the same way. The woman in front of him in a washed-out raspberry bra that's making it hard for him to concentrate, with a wide-eyed, helpless look in her eyes, staring intently at the mess of clothes on his pale blue kitchen linoleum- _Donna_, the way he's always seen her, as beautiful as he's always known her to be, and yet not Donna. He slowly, gently takes her hands, both of them, fluttering and soft, in his. Swallows. God this is hard, the paled color of her bra is all too hypnotizing, the faint glow of her bare shoulders all too tempting. Her gaze moves to their hands, his left, her right, interlocked, and- really? A tiny tear, caught in her eyelashes, fluttering, blinding her. Her eyes are swimming, her vision blurred- two hands become one, and now she can look up at him. She can see –though it's blurred- his look, as unsure, as scared and _angry_ as she feels, but somehow, all of this is reassuring. He opens his arms and she dives into them in, for a second, a pure, platonic way that belies their bare arms pressing in on each other, the way she can deeply inhale his most Josh-ish smell without the barriers of shirts and jackets. The way his muscles are pressing in on her, the way she can't help notice how perfectly they fit into each other. She presses her face into his shoulder, tries to shut out the immense wanting that's opened up in her, tries to quiet the way her head is whispering, singing, shouting, drawling his name.

She's pressed too closely against him, burying her face too intently in his shoulder, the tip of her nose almost painful. He's at a loss- for words, for plans, has no clue what to say or do or feel next. Buries his face in her hair and closes his eyes. And then- slowly, shyly, as though this is the first time, they're kissing again. So gently- just a flutter of lips on her temple, a stirring cheek, eyelashes mingling. Sweet, gentle kisses, hardly there- like the secret, special language they were once so good at, light and insignificant, indiscernible to the untrained eye, but with an underlying hunger, with a million possibilities hovering right there on the edges. And this time, they're ready. Ready for the opportunity to be grasped, for the maybe, the might-have-been, one-fine-day to become a moment in time as he kisses her deeply, gently runs his hands over her almost bare back, as she lets her hands journey over her chest, coming to a sudden halt over a long, perfectly pink scar. They break apart, and she takes his hand, places it on her own scar, acutely aware of her racing heartbeat underneath. He understands, places his hand –trembling, she notes with a smile- over her scar, pinker than his, longer. Just as perfect. He bends down and kisses her, right there, on the sensitive new skin that's just growing around the scar, growing, it turns out, for this is exact moment, because the newly developed neurons, the sensitivity of her skin the doctors told her it was a miracle she had is tingling and prickling and buzzing under his touch and she bores her fingers into his shoulders a little tighter at this new, thrilling touch that's making her spin, spin around and around…

And now, slowly breathing and never taking their eyes off each other, with hands cautiously, impatiently exploring the new but strangely, somehow so familiar territory of the others body, they move into the bedroom. And then, in both their memories, it's a confused sensation of sheets and lips and hands and kisses, of seeing each other in a totally new light. In midst of her sweet kisses and her hair and the stunningly soft skin of the tiny dent her stomach forms around her navel, it occurs to him that _Donna is lying in my bed wearing hardly anything_, and he smiles at the thought, how improbable, and yet, if Sam or CJ knew, all they would say was: _finally_. And as she dives into his strong shoulders and explores the sensation of her skin against his, of his cheek on hers, it occurs to her that _I'm actually having sex with Josh_, and even as she thinks it, she can't quite grasp it, it's not real, but his soft, warm body is and his gentle hands, pulling her towards him, and her grip on his shoulders… it's real. It's stunning and beautiful and more real than anything she has ever experienced.

Naked, shining palely against his dark blue flannel sheets with her hair spilling over, she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The delicate curves of her body, the still deliciously awkward angles, the way she flutters as his hands travel over her skin, gently, like child's play. He kisses her, again and again and again, because he can never get enough of this moment.


	4. Run

**Part Four **

**Run**

And I can barely look at you

But every single time I do

I know we'll make it anywhere

Away from here

…

Louder louder

And we'll run for our lives

I can hardly speak I understand

Why you can't raise your voice to say

-Run (Snow Patrol)

She wakes up, and for the first time in weeks of falling asleep in a different hotel almost ever night, she's not hit by Traveler's Sickness. She knows exactly where she is. Josh's apartment. His bedroom. His bed. She blinks and squints and reluctantly opens her eyes. _Josh_. A length of a hand away from her, snoring slightly, a grin playing on his face, dimples and all, even as he's sleeping. She feels a giant rushing in her heart, feels herself winded by the simple realization that if she could have this moment for the rest of her life, waking up next to a sleeping, dimple-showing-smiling Josh, she would need nothing else. She moves her face a little closer to his, so that they're almost touching and stares at him. "What happens now?" She whispers, and he stirs but doesn't wake up. "What do we do?" Whispers, and still he doesn't wake up, but he does reach out his hand and pull her a little closer. She feels her throat constrict with all the things she wants to say to him, and can't, and couldn't, and didn't, and should have said last night, before they ended up in bed, fighting out the battle of love and leaving with their fingers, skin burning and kisses so powerful her mouth almost feels sore. Josh's arms, pulling her close, the way her little moans made him grin as he kissed her. She reaches out and traces the soft skin along his temple, and lets her face fall into his shoulders. And whispers. "I love you."

She's said it. She has not-been-saying these words for such a long time that now that she's said them, she's expecting lights and fireworks and the Hallelujah-Chorus, at least. But it's quiet, except for Josh's deep, even breathing and the gentle tick-tocking of his alarm. And suddenly, as though it's been waiting for the moment in which she'll be the most vulnerable, biding it's time like a monster under his bed, fear creeps into her. This is too big for her. This is too big for both of them, and what happened last night, it was a _mistake_. She shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have left that message on her machine -"_I'm really proud of you, in a weird way_"-, and they certainly shouldn't have started kissing against his refrigerator.

What she wanted was a life free of Josh Lyman. That was what she needed, the day she agreed to take Will's job offer. She wanted to cut her ties and run into the opposite direction, she wanted to be herself again, not half of a flawed, floundering Josh-And-Donna.

Instead, she got a year of working harder than she'd ever worked before and telling herself she was enjoying herself because at least she wasn't thinking about him, and this morning, in his bed. She's never going to be free of him now. But they'll never work it out, either. This is the final straw, the magnificent last hurrah of this epically doomed not-relationship.

They've truly fucked it up this time. Literally.

Next to her, Josh stirs. And wakes up to find Donna curled into his arms, looking away from him and silently crying. He's awake in an instant. "Hey," he whispers, gently turning her face toward him, "what?"

She looks up at him, with _the face_ –like her hamster just died- and shakes her head. And he gets it. She's scared and confused and ashamed and she's only now realizing that this thing –this thing that they have, that they've had since Day One- is so big, so terrifying that the only sane option is to turn and run into the opposite direction as quickly as you can. He knows that feeling, he's been going through it, on and off, since Gaza. He's hurt her, she's hurt him, and he knows that this will be her last and desperate attempt to cut him out of her life, to end it.

He's paralyzed. He doesn't want this, he doesn't want her to leave, he wants her to smile at him in her most Donna-ish way and ask him annoying questions and not bring him coffee and keep his change to prove a point. That's all he's ever wanted. Well. Not quite.

She wipes her cheeks and turns herself towards him properly, pulls herself up into a sitting position, with his sheets wrapped around her like a shield. He glances up at her with an unreadable expression on her face, and she braces herself for the words she has to say.

"We can't go on like this, Josh."

Silence. He just looks at her, and he's trying to burn the image of her, on this morning, in the pale light filtering in, wrapped into his sheets, shining cheeks and unruly hear, into his mind.

"I don't want this. Not…not like this. I want…" She stops, lamely. "I don't know what I want. But this isn't it." _It's not perfect. And I will accept nothing less than the perfection I know we could have from you. _

He knew this was coming, but any counter-argument he might have thought of, any brilliant strategy he might have had to convince her to change her mind, something involving waffles for breakfast and showing her the Christmas present he still has, and never gave her because she quit two days before, gets caught in his throat when she puts it like that. He feels the words entangling themselves in his mouth and swallows, pushes them down, down, into the very depths of his gut, where they can stay.

This is the hardest thing she's ever done, and the fact that she's not even sure it's right makes it worse. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

He nods_. I understand, and I'm still here_.

She gets up, still wrapped into the sheet, which makes her look ridiculous. But beautiful. So beautiful. "Do you…do you want something to eat?" He asks, randomly.

She shakes her head. "I'm fine. I'll just…" she starts collecting her clothes, blushing as he wordlessly hands her her bra, it's hypnotic raspberry coloring much, much paler in the light of a dawning day.

"Here," he slips on his boxers, gets up, crosses to the closet and hands her a sweatshirt of his. She hesitates, but takes it. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She slips on the sweatshirt, her skirt, and hurries into the kitchen to retrieve her blouse, and that old, pink cardigan. Seeing her stuff it unceremoniously into her bag, he almost looses it completely. Half of him wants to shake her, press her against the wall and cover her in kisses until she changes her mind, but he knows that'll never do. He knows it's too late.

"Want me to call you a cab?" She shakes her head and helplessly pushes open the door, turning towards him.

"Goodbye, Josh."

"Bye." She turns away, and walks out of the door. When he hears it click it shut, he says, loudly, to the inside of his door, "I love you, Donna."

When she unlocks her door ten minutes later, she's greeted by an answering machine that's not blinking and her radiator pipes are humming as loudly as ever. And she sinks down on her sofa, feeling nothing but his absence and the weight of the night's events and the morning's decision, on her shoulders. And she misses him, misses everything from his smile to his hair to the way his skin around the elbows is all wrinkled and rough, like sandpaper.

And it's only now that she realized, no matter how far she runs, she'll only keep running into him.

_Fin. _


End file.
